Wednesday, June 24, 2015

I love the scent of a man as much as the next woman. Perhaps
more so. You can tell so much with a deep whiff – just like burying your nose
in the midsection of an ancient book. Where have you been? Has it been a hard
life? What’s your story? And what’s the latest trend? Are you more than your
cover reveals?

Even in middle school when most boys smelled like Doritos,
gym socks, and Gak, I was convinced that their scent was one of the most
powerful forms of subconscious relating. It got even better once they started
wearing deodorant. Perhaps I was just ahead of my time, but social cues
indicated otherwise as my peers started wearing nauseatingly noticeable layers
of perfume and eyeliner. I tried to follow suit – dabbing perfume from the tester
packets in magazines or from small gifts by family members desperate to see me put
down my softball glove and take some level of interest in my femininity. But nothing
ever seemed to be the right fit for me – I always came out the other end smelling
like an old china cabinet. Even more frustrating was how to find a good scent
with my chemical compositions changing every half an hour. One time I tried Olive
Tree and Eucalyptus oil in the store and by the time I got home I smelled just
like a Tootsie Roll.

In addition to keeping up with perfumes’ scent-shifting, it
was also a constant question of ‘how much is too much?’ Should you smell me on
the street? Should you smell me after gym? Should you smell me while I swim?
Far more complicated than I cared to waste my precious time on, I abandoned
scents altogether for myself, but just as art appreciation lives on with the
artist, I never gave up on deep breathing around a good dose of pheromones.

I want to return now to one of the pivotal questions that stumped
me and ultimately cut my relationship with perfumes and colognes as a youth – a
question for which I never found an answer and that, I have noticed living in
Jerusalem, can last into adulthood for a large sector of the population. Take,
for example, the gentleman in my building whose fragrant scent lingers like
breadcrumbs leading him home at the end of a long day. He seems to share my
cosmic query: how much is too much?

Or actually, does he even know to ask the question? Maybe he
has no strong role model or close friend with any sense of smell whatsoever or
common courtesy for the public space to guide the way. And that is why I am writing here today – to finally
and decisively close this mystery from my childhood:

I can decisively ascertain that if your aftershave can curl
under my front door, through my home and into my kitchen to mask the scent of
my brewing coffee as you make your way down our stairwell, then you are absolutely,
100% no-question hands-down wearing too much cologne.

I feel truly vindicated and want to shout my discovery to
the world. I want to slip this open letter under the door of my neighbor. On
the one hand, I feel like it would be a service to society. On the other hand, what
if he doesn’t see quantity with the same certainly and absoluteness that I do?
Or what if he is using his musk to lure a potential lady friend from the next
neighborhood over? What if he has a
long-lost lover whom he is trying to woo back across sands of time and the
Negev to our little jungley enclave in the city? That’s a lot of street musk
and camel pee to cross and certainly necessitates the three extra spritzes now
donned upon his neck and nether-regions.

But! That brings up another question: what if, just as birth
control can alter your hormones and actually change the men you are attracting
(that’s real – look it up), this poor soul is masking his uniquely sexy
pheromones with corporate (albeit delicious) olfactory homogeneity that puts
him in direct biological competition with Ashton Kutcher and Justin Beiber?
That’s science. These are the things I worry about as I choke on the indecision
to inhale his manly, trite-but-never-tired Axe or gag on his aromatic overindulgence.
But I will say – my dear neighbor, your audacity smells divine and I wish you
all the best in attracting a mate – hopefully from very, very far away.

About Me

My name is Rachel Winner. In January 2012, a woman I truly admire looked me in the eye and called me an adventurer. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I didn’t argue or tell her that I am terrified of kayaking , I think camping is stupid (probably because my friends keep inviting me to go in December) and that I’d rather do laundry than cling to the side of a cliff. She explained that last year, I came to her saying “I’m moving to Mexico. I have no idea what I’m doing and if I can do it, but that’s my plan.” And I did. Nearly a year later, we are having the same conversation about my new writing business in North Carolina, WinnersWords. And yet, here I go. I started this blog when I moved to Mexico, and I’m keeping it up with life lessons, musings and observations – all of which make up my grand adventure.